


The Irony of Fate

by clownsxclowns



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, DC Comics References, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Smut, I cant think of anymore tags because my brains failed me, I haven't fleshed it out too much but I'm very excited for this series / mini series?, I've seen a lack of fics on Arthur???, Idk where I'm going with this tbh, Joker (DCU) Angst, Like idk if this is taboo to write about now but I love him?, Revolution, Series, Slow burn perhaps?, i hope its okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-12-01 21:10:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20900453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clownsxclowns/pseuds/clownsxclowns
Summary: Arthur hated his life. That was no secret. He could pull out a list of the reasons why if someone had to ask. Perhaps he had pissed off fate really badly, a time he couldn't seem to recall. Or perhaps, not that he believed in it, in a past life he had behaved so reprehensively that he was cursed for the entirety of his reincarnated existence. At this point, anything would make more sense than his continual bad luck - make more sense than his life.Was he doomed to be miserable for the rest of his time on earth? Or would the woman he spotted from his window instigate a rapid spiral of change?





	1. Groundhog Day

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I've noticed a lack of fics for Arthur Fleck/Joker. It kinda makes me sad because I feel like it's because of the controversies surrounding the film? While I don't completely agree with the hate it's getting, something that I won't get into, I can see how it may be taboo to write a fic on him. Either way, the Joker has been an iconic figure since the 40's, with the continual digression of his character into more darker realms, correct me if I'm wrong, around the 70's. He's been around for a while, without controversies, and with the schism between fiction and reality firmly established. Idk like I said, I don't really wanna get into it, I don't want to shit on people's beliefs so I respect them, though I feel like if you're someone who does like the film (and obviously can tell the difference between right and wrong), you're valid and we shouldn't have to defend our position for liking a form of art (yes, cinema is art, you can't change my mind).

It was cold. 

The meandering, tickle of wind brushed against Arthur’s half-bare form, caressing the soft skin of his chest, while weary arms wrapped around his fragile body, riddled with goosebumps. The front of his neck, which was exposed as it rested against the top of his sofa had his head dangling off the rear of it. He ignored the chill that spread across his body, a shiver that travelled as swift as a racing river; icy and immersive. Encapsulating. 

It was the only thing he had felt in days.

Perhaps weeks. 

His hair was long and untamed, the fluffy strands which occasionally brushed up against the structure of his cheek, due to the wind, acted like a concerned friend.

Or at least that was what he thought. 

In all honesty, he wasn’t certain what friends felt like. 

The flashing of the tv screen before him was disregarded, as well as the noise it discharged; with its aim nothing more than to provide background noise to Arthur, he lost himself in the static it transmitted. Though the thought spirals, which occurred day after day, were far harsher and just like the little device in front of him, he couldn’t just switch it off. 

As he eyed the ceiling, he became conscious of the paint chipping away at the corners of the roof as well as the water damage caused by small leaks from the apartments above him. It had led to the discovery of discoloured small sections in the ceiling; sunken, and dark were the bubbles that formed. Most worrying of all, was the mould which peeked out from the fragmented paint, festering and collated. It strangely didn’t bother him, however, he couldn’t bring himself to care as his blue eyes raked across the surface of the cream, shabby ceiling. Vacant and void of emotion. Cold and uncaring. 

Another breeze crammed itself through the window, dancing its way to him. 

The cycle repeated. 

Shivers.

Goosebumps.

Thought spiral.

Wind. 

Everything was the same.

That was, until he heard something.

Something new. 

It was melodic, yet stifled as his thoughts suffocated him. It trickled inside from the alleys of Gotham, crossing his open, dilapidated window.

Singing. 

And it wasn’t the type of singing you heard every day - no it was touching; unique. And it came from deep within. From the heart. It was something rare, something Arthur had only heard a few times in his life. While he was often surrounded by music - his mother's influence - he rarely connected with any. 

This though...this was different. 

The tune wrapped around his form like a firm lead of rope, binding around his chest with a great, complex knot, one impossible to escape, and further, one impossible to unravel. The spell had been cast, and he had been enchanted. 

He lifted his head from its lazy hanging position, abruptly sitting upright, supporting his back against the couch while his fingers fiddled in his lap. Instantly, he found himself drawn to the window, hypnotised like a man in love as he stumbled towards it, scurrying. 

Another gust of wind. 

His hands were shaking. Whether it was from the sudden feeling of liveliness or nervousness he couldn’t distinguish, though they gripped the window frame tightly and he thrust his head out, first hitting the top of his head against the extendable part of the frame, before shaking the pain away and righting his position. Wild eyes darted across the filthy, littered Gotham streets, the busy, gloomy city sinking into his now sparkling, curious eyes, searching for a source. 

It took a few moments before he finally found it - a woman - just across the road from his apartment, meters away. She stood in front of a store, an acoustic guitar in her grasp, one hand sliding up and down the neck to find the perfect notes, while the other strummed. Her guitar case was fixed below her, open as bills, pennies and dimes were scattered inside it, tossed in by those absently walking by. In a way, the thought of those strolling past, who had yet to stop and appreciate her sheer talent, made the bushy brows at the top of his head crease into a frown. His blood boiled. No one appreciated art these days.

She wore a red dress, elegant and fitting, extremely well dressed for the streets of Gotham. Almost strangely formal. She was beautiful though, graceful even, as her form swayed with the music, completely invested in the lyrical masterpiece that passed her lips.

Arthur had to pinch herself to make sure she was real.

To him, she was otherworldly. Angelic.

He was frozen and rendered speechless as his breathing caught in his throat. Even though he was observing her from his dingy window like a common creep, he felt compelled to talk to her, to get to know her, to know every little detail about her. Was she kind? Was she as sweet as she looked? What was her favourite colour? Did she like comedy?

As he continued to mentally question her from above, he felt reality slipping from him. It was escaping from his grasp, melting like candle wax, or perhaps like putty in his hands, the goop raining down from the gaps of his fingers. He could feel the daydream occurring, the blurring of his vision as he zoned out on her form - and only her form. 

The only important thing illuminating the dull, insignificant seconds that plagued his life like a cancer. 

He’d walk up to her, a hand nervously fixing his hair, tugging at the strands if he encountered a knot. First, he’d wait for her to finish the rest of her song, standing nearby with an encouraging smile, one she’d promptly return. She’d continue the sway of her hips, a move he’d find hard to restrain his eyes from drinking in. Somehow he’d manage. 

He’d practically be bursting with excitement when she finally reached the climax of her song, clapping frantically. She’d bow, a large grin plastered on her face as she does so. 

“What’s your name?” She’d say. 

“A-Arthur. M-my-my name is Arthur.” He’d stutter out, the fidgeting of his fingers while noticeable, he’s thankful she ignores. 

“Nice to meet you, Arthur!” 

He’d perform a little dip of his head, an idiosyncrasy he can’t help as he laughed nervously, replying with a soft, “you too.” 

Next, he’d compliment her - on her singing. He’d be honest too, trying his best to articulate the feelings they evoked within him. It was a difficult task. Arthur learnt that the hard way as they carried on talking for a while. 

It remained this way, soft, sweet and casual - until he made her laugh.

It was the most beautiful, infectious sound he’d ever heard. It was something to add to his ever-growing list of likes. He was well and truly hooked, an addiction he wasn’t willing to shake off. 

Like a curse, something he could never stray too far from, he’d think about the dreaded, intrusive laughter that tended to emerge at the worst times. He’d obsess over its emergence, wondering just when exactly it would spontaneously occur. Would she accept the card he’d force into her hand? A simplistic explanation of his condition? Would she understand? Would she think him a freak?

Even in his mind, he couldn’t escape ridicule. 

The negative thought threw him off track. No longer was he able to picture her smiling eyes boring into his own, the large stretch of her grin, and the teeth that briefly bit into the bottom of her lip as she laughed, a small involuntary action. No longer was he able to picture himself smiling back, his lips pursed into his smile, the soft crinkle of his eyes and the subtle rise of his brows. It faded away like a fog, the happiness that bubbled in his stomach popping along with it as he snapped back to reality. Harsh and brutal. The upturn of his mouth deflated like a tire, slow and agonising once he was confronted with the truth. 

He hadn’t actually gone up to her. He was still centred at the window in his mother’s grossly, illegally defective apartment; trapped in a home he firmly believed had never met the standards, even in its inception. Along with the new outbreak of ‘super rats’, a phenomenon he was well acquainted with, things were only set to go further downhill.

Because of this, he’d have to settle for the next best thing.

He disappeared from the window, retreating into one of the other rooms. Hands gripped the wood of the chair - one precisely chosen for its comfort; a chair pleasant enough to sit down on without his backside turning numb. After he dragged it to the window, the continual, ear-piercing groan of wood against wood was a sound that had piqued his mother’s interest from the other room, an attraction Arthur quickly and almost desperately shot down. Once he found himself semi-relaxed in the chair, he rested his head against the window frame. The breeze which blew against his face, filtering into the lifeless room, lifting the curtains beside him. 

He didn’t know how long he sat by his window, absorbing the stunning tune which serenaded his ears. The setting sun had coloured Gotham by then, and the beautiful girl before him. Its orange glow sunk into her skin, somehow making her more dazzling in his eyes. All he knew was that he couldn’t peel himself away, nor his eyes, or attention. He was well and truly charmed.

All good things must come to an end though, a concept Arthur hated. When she finished her last song, his heart leapt out of his chest, and his gut churned with dread. Was he ever going to see her again?

This thought was promptly put aside when she finally looked up at him, their eyes locking. Although she was some distance away, he could still see the slow smile forming on her face and the small wave she gave him. 

He quickly, and rather nervously returned the acknowledgement, the mini-debate in his head promptly cut short as his mind blanked and he darted for the door. Turning the doorknob with extreme force, he threw the door open and slammed it behind him, running for the stairs. The elevator in his building had a bad track record, and had done nothing in the past but inconvenience him. He was sure to miss her if he took it - hell, he wasn’t even sure he’d catch her taking the stairs. 

Nevertheless, he persisted, shoving the thought away. 

His feet moved on their own accord, his hurried descent echoing throughout the empty stairwell. It was multiple, exhausting flights before he got to the bottom. His heart was racing and his breathing was ragged as sweat formed on his forehead; not only due to the strenuous workout he had endured but also because of the fear of her departure. In a burst of confidence only then had he decided to talk to her, a confidence that seemed to completely leave his disappointed form once he reached outside, slamming into the fire escape exit and into the littered streets. She had left, and he had been too slow. 

He sighed.

Off Arthur went, performing the walk of shame back to his apartment after searching for her red dress for the 100th time. He ascended the stairs, hair hanging low, along with his head fixed towards the ground. 

Oh, the irony of fate.

\-----

It was a few days later when he saw her again. She popped up into his mind a lot, more than he’d like to admit. Her beauty, which was not something to sneeze at, was often the first thing he thought of, followed by the songs she sang. It was this he remembered most and he often found himself replaying them, a calming mantra as he relished in her delivery. He found he did this when he was having an especially bad time. 

The effect she had on him was yet to dissipate. 

Considering the imprint she had left in his life, despite Arthur observing the woman for what had probably only been a few hours, he could recognise her voice anywhere. 

So, it was quite a shock to Arthur when he heard her voice on the television. At first, he hadn’t been able to pinpoint it, believing she was outside again. The thought had the blood rushing to his cheeks and the sweat glands in his palms working into overdrive. It took a few more seconds for Arthur to realise that the beautiful, unique voice that had once, for a short period, softly soothed his woes was in fact, right in front of him on the cubic form of entertainment. 

On the Murray Franklin show.


	2. Put on a Happy Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God this took me forever AHHAHA I was so unhappy with what I was writing I had to re-write it like 5 times ughhh I hope it's okay?? I feel like I've let everyone down *yeet*

Anxiety coursed through (Y/n) like a turbulent storm, its rage coursing throughout her body, numbing her fingertips. Her mouth was abnormally dry and her attempts at swallowing - to try and lessen the prominence of the drought within, were all in vain. Counting down the seconds in her head silently, her jaw ticked. Large multicoloured drapes burned into her eyes, their bright colours harsh if looked at for too long. As she stood behind them, backstage, the familiar, upbeat music filled her ears, a tune she had known since teenagehood. In person, the arrangement of instruments beyond the curtains sounded different. It was raw. Loud. Unfiltered. The difference was something she found she prefered, it’s authenticity shining through. 

Despite the nostalgia, and the thrill of her dreams coming true, the song was hardly comforting, adding to the growing nausea in her stomach. Solidifying the presence of the knot within. 

The fact she was there was surreal. 

The crowd, in response to the anthem, went wild, clapping on cue, along with the song.

“Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen!” Murray shouted. His renowned dance moves, which had him swinging to the beat, were perfectly timed. 

Although (Y/n) was shrouded by the massive curtains in front of her, she could practically hear the smirk on his face. Sickly sweet and, dare she say, sickly fake. While she was eternally grateful to be where she was, the disingenuity unsettled her. It rubbed her the wrong way. 

Good ratings meant more money, and more money meant fewer problems. 

“Now, tonight, we’ve got an extra special guest,” he said.

(Y/n) swallowed.

She felt her fingers twitch in anticipation while the majority of the public oohed at Murray’s news.

“She’s a gorgeous woman…” a handful whistled, earning a soft chuckle from the host, “though I must say, she has an even lovelier voice.”

“It’s quite funny actually, I met her on the street the other day. I was blown away when I first heard her performing. And…I usually don’t do this, but I just had to have her on the show. You all know how much I love talent.” 

“However, there was just one thing that left me confused. I asked her, ‘why on the streets?’” Murray gave a quizzical look, “with such a gift, you’d expect her to be in the clubs!” 

“She shrugged her shoulders and told me, ‘you gotta start somewhere’.” 

“Now while I respect that, starting from humble beginnings and all, I told her, ‘honey with a face like that, you don’t gotta go around singing on the streets for money,’ if you know what I mean.” 

The spectators laughed, and (Y/n) rolled her eyes in response. Suddenly, she was glad she was hidden. She wouldn’t want her annoyed expression to give the wrong impression. She didn’t want to be labelled. The last thing she needed was to wake up and read some shitty news article painting her as a ‘diva’ and ‘ungrateful’. Gotham thrived on negativity, so once that was out there, she’d never recover from the defaming blow. Sexist jokes or not, fighting up against one of the most dominant television personalities in Gotham, as well as the media, was a deathwish careerwise. 

“Now that’s enough from me, you’re all probably sick of my face. Please welcome, (Y/n)!” 

Swiftly, the live band played their tunes, signalling her entrance. Murray directed attention to the infamous curtains, his arms stretching, his fingers wiggling towards the material. Screams of joy echoed off the studio walls.

At the sound, her hands raced to her form-fitting black dress, smoothing out the wrinkles before the curtain opened. When they did, they were slow. A cringe formed its way onto her face as the pully system squeaked along. As ready as she’ll ever be, she cemented a smile, hiding the wince, and walked through the drapes, deciding against waiting. 

Feeling a little dramatic, her form hunched over into a bow. A leg darted behind the other, with one hand in front, another resting against her back. Wolf whistles decorated the air at her arrival, though they were promptly replaced with roaring laughter as she made her way towards Murray and planted two firm kisses on both of his cheeks. Eventually, the clacking of her heels signified movement from the older man as she moved to occupy the yellow chair next to Murray’s desk.

Murray made a face after her display of affection, a look although (Y/n) couldn’t see, with his back towards her, she knew it transpired because of the public’s response. She could only imagine the face: one of shock and surprise, or perhaps confidence, as he winked towards them. Either way, both weren’t hard to envision, and the thought made short, distinct, puffs of air release from her nose in amusement. 

Shortly, he followed her lead and took a seat behind his table. 

“You’ve got some flare kid,” Murray chuckled, and (Y/n) could tell a genuine smile had replaced the false one. A twinge of pride wriggled in her chest at the realisation. 

“Are you nervous?” Murray asked suddenly, his eyes flying to the hands in her lap, fidgeting, “you seem nervous.” 

She shot the audience a look, her teeth clenched as her eyebrows flew up. 

“Yeah,” was all she said, her tone coming out high and unsure. 

Laughter. 

“You’re already doing great. This your first time on live television?” 

The reminder that this was live exacerbated her anxiety, her leg threatening to bounce. The pressure was on; if she screwed up, everyone would remember. 

“Pretty much,” a hint of fear wavered her voice, and the laugh that followed was shaky, “this is really surreal.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” he flicked his wrist at her, “it’ll be second nature the way you’re headed.”

Her hands flew up to her cheeks, a tinge of pink coating the area while she tittered, “thank you, but I’m not so sure of that.”

“So humble!” 

Murray adjusted himself in his chair, his leg crossing over his other. He leaned forward towards the singer, form angled away from the onlookers. His concentration was solely on her. 

“So (Y/n), what have you got planned for us tonight?” 

A diffident expression crossed the woman’s features as she recalled her song.

“One of my favourites. Put On a Happy Face by Tony Bennett.” 

Murray nodded.

“Interesting choice. But, a classic.” 

His formerly interlocked hands were thrown into the air, giving a signal to the band. At this, (Y/n) stood up from her seat, and headed towards the already arranged set up towards the end of the stage. Once she arrived, she gripped the cylindrical microphone with both hands, its body supported by a stand. The object was cool against her heated fingertips.

The music started, the funk infectious and the woman’s hips began to sway.

—- 

Arthur barely held the gasp within him when he gazed upon (Y/n) ’s form, her flattering black dress a spectacle to behold. Her bow, cute and pure, converted the gasp he was restraining into a lovestruck sigh. 

He was sold, struck by the arrow of the little rascal Cupid himself. 

She looked just as good on TV.

He found it endearing how honest she was, admitting to her nerves. In his eyes, she was genuine, not like the scum that riddled Gotham’s streets; not like those who laughed at him; not like Randall. 

Similar to a child who was urgent to take in his favourite cartoon, he moved himself closer to the screen, a meter away at best, as he sat cross-legged. The tickling sensation of excitement shot throughout his slender body. 

As the music started playing, the overly happy tune seized him. When the camera panned on (Y/n) ’s walking form, he took in every little detail. The sigh she let out when she reached the microphone. The wobbling of her hands, which she tried to hide by clutching the device. The movement of her throat, suggesting a swallow. The jaw that clicked. 

Arthur saw it all.

Then, she started singing. 

_ **Gray skies are gonna clear up** _

_ **Put on a happy face** _

_ **Brush off the clouds and cheer up** _

_ **Put on a happy face** _

The spectators interjected, drowning out a portion of the lyrics as they released sounds of support. 

As Arthur leant into his tv screen, he was absolutely convinced nothing could deter his eyes, his hypnosis. Not even the whining of his mum, who had been entirely obstructed from viewing the screen.

He hadn’t even realised she was there, he’d forgotten all about her. 

_ **Take off the gloomy mask of tragedy** _

_ **It’s not your style** _

_ **You’ll look so good that you’ll be glad** _

_ **You decide to smile** _

Arthur wished he was there in the room with (Y/n). In the crowd. To see her pretty (e/c) eyes glance over him and shoot him a wink. Or perhaps a smile. Anything - like the acknowledgement she gave him days prior. Just something to know that he really existed. That he wasn’t riding through life like a doormat - invisible, stepped on, beaten up and chucked around. No one really noticed the object, nor cared to, as it dejectedly rested below the door. Day after day.

_ **Pick out a pleasant outlook** _

_ **Stick out that noble chin** _

_ **Wipe off that “full of doubt” look** _

_ **Slap on a happy grin** _

Arthur began to grin when she saw her nerves were starting to leave her. Oh, how badly he wanted to applaud her. Encourage her. 

_ **And spread sunshine all over the place** _

_ **And put on a happy face** _

One hand released the microphone, moving to her face as she traced the outline of her upturned lips, a short, accidental giggle slipping out. It made Arthur’s heart swell! 

The band complemented her style perfectly. Their contrasting deep voices were melodic as they harmonised with her humming. 

_ **Gray skies are gonna clear up** _

_ **Put on a happy face** _

_ **Brush off the clouds and cheer up** _

_ **Put on a happy face** _

Arthur found his form lightly swaying to the tune, his grin extending from ear to ear, impossibly deeper. 

She was really into it now, and he could tell she could feel the music rushing through her, now a conduit for the art. When he saw the confidence which had manifested, growing with each passing second, his mind swarmed with joy, his mind conjuring a bundle of soothing words he noiselessly projected through the cubic barrier before them - to her. 

_ **And if you’re feeling cross and bickerish** _

_ **Don’t sit and whine** _

_ **Think of banana splits and licorice** _

_ **And you’ll feel fine** _

She disconnected the microphone from the stand, bringing it under her chin. Quickly she departed from her spot with a small spin, strutting across the rest of the stage - something that got the fans rowdy; wooing. Her body swung to the beat, shoulders moving with her.

_ **I knew a girl so gloomy** _

_ **She’d never laugh or sing** _

_ **She wouldn’t listen to me** _

_ **Now she’s a mean old thing** _

Now incredibly expressive - antithetical from when she first began - she accompanied her singing by miming the lyrics. A fist rocked below her eyes imitating tears in a burlesque manner, and a fake frown contorted her features. Though, no matter how sad she pretended to be, Arthur knew just by the twinkle in her eyes that she was bursting with happiness. 

_ **So spread sunshine all over the place** _

_ **And put on a happy, happy face** _

_ **Put on a happy, happy, happy face** _

During the final verse, she had moved closer to the camera, dragging out the closing note with a high. 

_ **Oh, come on bubby, smile, it’s your birthday!** _

She made direct eye contact with the lens and winked. 

Arthur’s chest tightened at the action, and he couldn’t help but take it personally; as if the playful act was directly meant to be for him. Him and only him. 

Applause nearly deafened Arthur as it reverberated around the room, projecting shockingly loud for such a small device. Scrambling, his hands tried to lower the volume. Unfortunately, in his rush, his clumsy hands instead knocked up against another button, changing the channel entirely in the process. 

Regrettably for Arthur, the noise emitted only worsened. Although the tv was no longer on the Murray Franklin show, it was now on a channel playing an old war movie. Explosions and the earthshaking noises of artillery filled his crappy apartment, gunfire jolting his poor, unexpecting form. Letting out his shock with a shout, and a string of curses, his hands automatically moved to cover his ears - a reaction he midway stopped; gaining some control, he felt the device vibrate beneath his fingertips when they finally discovered the volume button. When he had readjusted the strength, he returned back to the station, free from the clamour, the show now on commercial break. 

He sighed, running a hand through his unkempt hair. 

_Why was he so fucking clumsy?_

_Even the smallest things he couldn’t seem to get right._

Gentle snoring shifted his awareness from his self-deprecating mental exchange, and when he looked over to the noise, he saw his mother asleep in her chair. Her head was tilted against her shoulder, her mouth open. It was a sight that made him laugh through his nose; something that managed to halt the negativity which began to swarm in his mind, like a vicious cloud of hornets. 

Arthur didn’t know how his mother could one minute be the lightest sleeper on earth, then the next, swing to the other extreme. It was a miracle she slept through his fuck up, but then again, if she were in a deep sleep, he was confident enough to bet she’d sleep through a natural disaster. 

It was honestly impressive.

Emitting a soft groan as his palms pushed himself up from his sitting position, he trailed from one end of his apartment to the other. He opened one of the squeaking cabinets near the bathroom, the small storage space containing miscellaneous items. Though, it mostly harboured their modest collection of towels and blankets. As his eyes skimmed the shelves, from top to bottom, they soon fell onto what he was searching for. On the very bottom, his hands gripped onto an old quilt. It was soft to touch, though when he moved to collect it, he felt small pricks against his flesh as his arms maneuvered to fit its length. 

Feathers. 

The floral pattern, which was a chaotic blend of reds, pinks, whites and cremes was gaudy and straining to look at. Arthur guessed it was a victorian design, and it was quite apparent that it was a style he wasn’t fond of. He didn’t think he ever understood the things his mother liked. It was definitely a selective taste. 

Shaking away his absentmindedness, and the staredown he was giving the blanket in his hand, he moved back to the living room, rounding behind his mother’s chair as he gently placed the cover against her. She was still snoring, some of them morphing into snorts. He honestly did try to contain his giggling, but most of it slipped out. To try and lessen the ache in her neck she was bound to wake up with tomorrow, he lastly righted her position. 

The upbeat music coming from the tv began again, letting Arthur know his favourite show had returned. Hurried, his lips pressed up against his sleeping mother’s forehead before returning back to his spot in front of the tube. 

“Welcome back, everyone! If you’re just tuning in, we have the lovely (Y/n) with us.”

For what was probably the 100th time, the crowd responded to Murray, who was sitting back at his desk, gaze set towards the camera. 

“And I’ve got good news for you, kid!”

(Y/n) looked up at the host from her chair, eyebrows furrowing. 

“What do you-” 

Murray interrupted. 

“I’ve set you up with a few clubs. We can’t let talent like yours go on without reward, it would be a disservice. On behalf of Gotham city, I think we can all agree we need some joy in these troubling times, and your presence just seems to radiate it.”

(Y/n) was evidently stunned. Suddenly, to her, some of his awful jokes had been worth it. 

“This isn’t a prank, right?” she turned to the audience, eyes expanded wholly making the audience explode into chuckles. Arthur found himself joining in. 

“I assure you lovely, we wouldn’t do that to ya.” 

“Your first gigs gonna be at Pogo’s comedy club. And yes, although it is a comedy club, they’ve made an exception. It’s best to start small and work your way up into the bigger names.”

_Arthur’s chest constricted. _

_He went there all the time! _

_He could see her perform!_

_Talk to her! _

_Finally have the chance to introduce himse-_

“So what do you say, darling?” Murray piped up, his eyes giving her an encouraging glance.

Arthur leaned forward, nose about to touch the screen in anticipation.

Her hands found her cheeks as she tried to conceal the spreading heat. Even in darkness, she was convinced the crimson flush would be bright enough to light up the room. While Murray had said a few off comments here and there, things she didn’t agree with, he truly had been welcoming to her. She thought maybe, just maybe, she had been too harsh on him. 

“I-I don’t know what to say?!” 

_Please say yes - please say yes - please say yes._

“You could say, yes?” Murray shot her a playful look. 

The woman finally nodded, adrenaline and joy manipulating her quaking frame, “yes! Yes! Thank you so much!” 

Arthur’s fists shook in the air, a sigh he wasn’t aware he was holding, released.

(Y/n) got up from her seat, shooting up like a rocket as she made her way behind Murray’s desk. He followed her actions and removed himself from his chair, and accepted the hug she pulled him into with a ‘whoa’.

“Well, there you have it, folks! Pogo’s, Friday night, at seven. Be there or be square!” 

With a little whisper to (Y/n), she was sent off, back to the area with the microphone. 

“Goodnight, tune in next time, and always remember-”

Instantly, the legendary keyboard tune started playing, and (Y/n) prepared herself to sing once more. 

“-that’s life!” Arthur mimicked.

For one final performance, the camera panned away from Murray, setting on (Y/n) as the credits rolled. Arthur relished in the sound, the lyrics hitting his very soul. 

_ **That’s life (that’s life), that’s what people say** _

_ **You’re riding high in April, shot down in May** _

_ **But, I know I’m gonna change that tune** _

_ **When I’m back on top, back on top in June** _

_ **I said, that’s life, (that’s life), and as funny as it may seem** _

_ **Some people get their kicks,** _

_ **Stompin’ on a dream** _

_ **But I don’t let it, let it get me down** _

_ **Cause, this fine old world it keeps spinning around** _

He sunk into the numbing feeling of the lyrics, forcing himself to close his eyes. He didn’t even realise the song was nearing its end until she reached the final verse. 

_ **My, My!** _

With the expression of dazed euphoria, Arthur opened his eyes, watching her part from the microphone, the credits now over. 

“Thank you,” was the only thing she said, her beaming expression the last thing Arthur saw. 

The show ended. 

Arthur, who was abandoned by the gentle, radiant hue of the cube before him, was consumed by the darkness. It dwelled within the room as the device had been switched off by his lingering hand. 

He didn’t know how long he sat in silence for. His mother had finally stopped snoring.

He didn’t want to watch television; didn’t feel like it. He wanted to soak in the episode he’d just witnessed - flick through the memorable moments for the rest of the night. 

He wanted to think about what he’d say to (Y/n) when he finally met her officially - he wanted it to be perfect. While the little wave she gave him days ago would have been such an insignificant action to most, it wasn’t to Arthur. It was real.

And the fact that he knew it was, reeled him in like an unsuspecting fish speeding to bait. 

Well and truly, Arthur was bewitched.

The sombre air surrounding him - a mood that always seemed to cling to him - and the dim blue hue which encompassed his apartment, strangely didn’t feel so bad for once. Hell, he didn’t feel so bad for once.

With the image of her smile repeating in his head, he didn’t feel so…

_Alone._


End file.
